


Standing Invitation

by maskedfangirl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, as fluffy as you can get fifty yards from a crime scene anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-24
Updated: 2011-10-24
Packaged: 2017-10-24 22:15:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/268459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maskedfangirl/pseuds/maskedfangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft likes to check in with Lestrade at crime scenes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Standing Invitation

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd and unBrit-picked.

On nights like this, Mycroft could generally be found within half a block of the crime scene, trying and mostly failing to look casual. Nights when he was in the country, that was - and when he wasn’t stuck behind a desk. Which was surprisingly often, all things considered. “Madman lurking about with an umbrella” was becoming a thing. Lestrade would’ve told him to stop it, but if he was honest with himself (which he rarely was in matters concerning black sedans and certain Holmeses in three-piece suits), the man’s presence gave him an odd sort of comfort. 

Most of the time, he texted. _Can’t tonight. Paperwork,_ or _Have to follow up with the family._

 _Very well,_ the response always said. _Take care. Mycroft Holmes_

 _Aren’t we past full-name sign-offs at this point?_ he always wanted to reply, but never did. 

Sometimes, he dug his hands into the pockets of his coat and strode over, trying to look like he might be questioning a bystander and not checking in with his…whatever Mycroft was. (Boyfriend. Normal people called them boyfriends.) 

“The paperwork can wait until morning. Care to join me?’ Mycroft would say, tipping his chin almost imperceptibly in the direction of wherever the car was parked waiting. “Wine and dessert?” he’d offer, or sometimes takeout and a DVD, or even just warm sheets. He always seemed to know whether Lestrade had caught dinner already. 

“Can’t tonight,” Lestrade said, and gave whatever excuse was in front of him. If it was dark and no one from the Yard was looking their direction, he might allow Mycroft a quick, closed-mouthed kiss. And maybe he’d press a hand to Mycroft’s chest, his fingers sliding under wool but over cotton and his thumb hooking around the silk tie for a second. But that was all. 

He’d said yes once, back at the very beginning. He knew Mycroft only from the couple of times the fellow’d approached him on some mission of Sherlock-related business, and he’d seen him casually lurking around the crime scenes his brother attended. That time, though, there’d been no Sherlock present - just Mycroft

“He’s not here,” Lestrade had started with, leaving the scene to catch the tube home. 

“I’m not interested in him just now, Gregory,” Mycroft said, the corners of his lips quirking up. The nod toward the car. “There’s a lovely little Thai restaurant midway between here and your flat. Care to join me?”

Lestrade glanced behind himself, then back. “Is this you flirting?”

“Yes,” Mycroft said, ducking his head and looking the closest to uncomfortable that Lestrade had seen him.

“Yeah, all right,” he said, because what the hell. It was weirdly flattering, having an intimidatingly well-dressed man offering to whisk him away into the night in an anonymous sedan. By the time the cheque came, he’d worked Mycroft’s right sock down his ankle with his toes and decided that Mycroft’s ears were practically edible in the resulting shade of pink, because Lestrade was a bit of a flirt and it had been an odd sort of day.

Tonight was downright miserable. Murder-suicide after a domestic, and the bloody arsehole hadn’t even had the decency to do it indoors. Rain sluiced off the fire escape in streams, drowning the alley while Lestrade’s team tried to race it to the evidence. Not that they needed to build much of a case. Two neighbors had witnessed the whole thing out their windows, as well as the couple’s eight-year-old daughter. Jesus. And of course he’d been stuck interviewing the kid, because Donovan looked at children with the kind of suspicion that most people reserved for clowns and there wasn’t much else for him to do on the scene. The case was his most hated kind: easy to solve but impossible to get out of his head. 

And there on the sidewalk outside the alley, just beyond the line of police vehicles, outlined by passing headlights, was a madman lurking about with an umbrella. Lestrade’s shoulders sagged at the sight.

Once the bodies were loaded up, the girl in an aunt’s custody, and his team given their marching orders, he dragged himself away from the scene. His hair was plastered cold to his skull, his collar soaked, and rain rolling in rivulets down his mackintosh. The city smelled like wet rubbish, but under Mycroft’s umbrella, the man’s subtle cologne somehow overshadowed it. 

“Whatever you’re about to say, don’t bother,” Lestrade said, keeping his eyes down. “The answer’s yes.” 

Mycroft curled a finger underneath his chin and tipped his head up so they were eye-to-eye. Smiling softly, he drew that hand up the side of Lestrade’s face and into his hair, wiping damp locks off his forehead. Lestrade pressed into the touch, his eyes fluttering closed. If he was honest with himself (which he still wasn’t, though he was closer than he’d been 10cm of rain ago), he’d been carrying around the hope all evening that Mycroft would be standing by waiting to take care of him with a promise of hot food and warm hands. Mycroft must’ve gotten it off his posture, because he circled his free arm tightly around Lestrade, letting the wetness of the coat soak into his suit jacket. He pressed dry lips to Lestrade’s forehead. 

“This you looming at the edges of crime scenes thing,” Lestrade said, before he could stop himself, “I could get used to it.”

The words hung between them for only a second before Mycroft said, “I’m glad,” his breath a warm prickle against Lestrade’s skin. 

Lestrade smiled as his—whatever the word was (Boyfriend.)—took his arm and walked him to the waiting car. 

 

  


 


End file.
